


Handsy

by moonheist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, POV Sirius Black, Slice of Life, Stress Baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 09:51:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16595588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonheist/pseuds/moonheist
Summary: Watching Remus bake was oddly soothing. Remus had quick wrists and surprisingly strong arms and honestly, it was a miracle Sirius had managed to keep his attention away from the baking process for this long. Remus took to it with the same determination and focus he employed for everything he did.





	Handsy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [throats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/throats/gifts).



> Reed kindly pointed out that one of the bakers in the first season of GBBO is as close to real-life Remus Lupin as we're ever going to get (no offense, David Thewlis) and my brain supplied me with an unshakeable image. So, here we are.
> 
> This takes place in some nebulous world where Remus and Sirius lived together post-Hogwarts and things weren't falling apart, though I suppose it could work in actual canon too. I know next to nothing about baking and got whatever British slang is in this fic from reading other fics, so if anything is wrong, I take full ownership. I haven't written fanfiction in _years_ , so this was an exercise in greasing the wheels as much as anything. If you like it, please let me know. ♥

The first time Sirius realized Remus was a stress baker, it was during Christmas hols the year he ran away from home. Shortly after he arrived at the Potters’ and owled Remus to let him know he’d been adopted by James’ mum because his own mum disowned him, Remus arrived with a paper bag full of food from a muggle grocer. Once he was assured that Sirius wasn’t hurt (“Not physically, anyway, don’t be a mother hen, Moony”), he and Euphemia had holed up in the kitchen all day and emerged every once in a while bearing platters of treats.

Sirius and James ate their weight cookies, breads, puddings and slices of pie that day, all while Sirius boggled at this newfound information about his boyfriend. When they got a horrible little flat together after school, he realized that Remus wasn’t so much a _stress baker_ as just a _baker_ — as in, he did it whenever he felt the urge, which turned out to be often.

So when Remus wandered into their small kitchen one afternoon while Sirius was nursing a cold cuppa and reading a novel that the pretty bird at the neighborhood bookstore had recommended, it wasn’t all that surprising. Yet somehow, as Remus got to work making Sirius-didn’t-know-what, Sirius slowly began to realize he’d never actually been _in the kitchen_ during the baking process. He’d only reaped the benefits after.

He wasn’t prepared for the way Remus hummed to himself when he pulled out his ingredients or set a glass baking dish on the stove. He wasn’t prepared for the way Remus counted under his breath as he added ingredients to the mixing bowl. And he certainly wasn’t prepared for how, whence something went wrong, Remus would allow himself the mildest of outbursts before continuing with his project.

“Agh!” Remus said, the sound elongated enough to make Sirius lift his gaze from his book. Remus’ fingers were coated in sticky dough and there was a piece of hair hanging in his face, obscuring the right lens of his glasses. Sirius raised an eyebrow, ready to intercede, but then Remus pushed his fingers back into the dough, grabbed a handful of flour with his clean hand, and kept working.

Then he muttered under his breath, “Why am I stressed? It’s just baking.”

Sirius fought not to laugh. “You alright, Moony?”

“Fine,” Remus said, distracted. His brow folded in concentration as he worked the dough under his hands until it was noticeably less sticky.

Watching Remus bake was oddly soothing. His dusty, red-blonde hair was even dustier with flour, the left lens of his glasses smudged with something that could have been butter — or maybe egg. The counter boasted an impressive clutter of baking detritus that had been pushed all to one side while Remus worked the pale ball of dough with his hands, occasionally picking it up and slapping it down on the counter so another little puff of flour flew into the air.

Now that he was looking, Sirius found it difficult to stop. Remus’ hands were fascinating: roughly chewed nails topped long, nimble fingers that connected to the widest, warmest palms in the world (wizarding or muggle, Sirius was certain). Remus had quick wrists and surprisingly strong arms and honestly, it was a miracle Sirius had managed to keep his attention away from the baking process for this long. Remus took to it with the same determination and focus he employed for everything he did: from schoolwork to methodically, expertly, repeatedly getting Sirius off.

“Stop staring at me,” Remus said, as though on cue. He didn’t look away from his ball of dough, which was growing under the firm ministrations of his hands, but when Sirius flicked his gaze up he could see Remus flushing under all the flour that seemed to be covering his entire person.

“I will not,” Sirius said, petulant. Remus huffed, picked up the ball of dough, and slapped it back down again. It landed on the counter with a resounding _thwack_. “Are you trying to beat that into submission?”

Remus huffed again. “No, you wanker. The gluten has to activate so the dough will stretch. Kneading establishes the necessary friction.” He rolled one wide palm over the ball, then pushed down, and Sirius felt an involuntary little shiver.

“Friction?” He grinned, then got to his feet to cross the kitchen. “If you need _friction_ , I—”

“Don’t you dare,” Remus cut him off and hit the dough on the counter again. Sirius flicked the words away and stepped into his boyfriend’s space, sliding his always-cold hands under the hem of Remus’ jumper. “Bloody _fuck_ , Pads—”

Sirius hummed and dropped a kiss at the base of Remus’ neck. “That’d certainly do the trick,” he agreed, amiable. He walked his fingers around Remus’ torso and rested his cheek between his shoulder blades. “Are you going to be done soon?”

The dough hit the counter with another loud _thwack_ before the controlled and patient movement of Remus’ shoulders stilled. Sirius breathed in the warm, floury smell of him and resisted the urge to press closer, wanting Remus to be the one to give in.

“Is my baking turning you on?” Remus murmured, low, sounding more amused and bewildered than as if he, too, was aroused by the process of ‘activating gluten’ or whatever nonsense.

Sirius paused. “If I say yes, will you let me blow you?”

Another pause. Then Remus’ shoulders moved again, this time with a raucous sort of laughter that seemed to burst forth with no warning. Sirius bristled and moved back, affronted, but before he could go far Remus was spinning around and grabbing his wrists, hauling him in for a floury, messy kiss that was far less sexy than Sirius would’ve liked it to be — mostly because Remus was _still laughing._

“Gerroff me,” Sirius muttered, struggling against Remus’ (admittedly superior) upper body strength. He squirmed, the poor semblance of a kiss broke, and then he had an armful of laughing Moony, warm and pliable and wearing a thick cable-knit sweater under an apron James bought for him last Christmas. “S’not _funny_ —”

“I’m _baking_ ,” Remus crowed. His arms threaded around Sirius’ neck, fingers tangling in his hair. Sirius rolled his eyes. “Of all the mundane tasks—”

“If you’re going to get cocky about it, I take back everything I said,” Sirius grumbled, though he didn’t protest when Remus gently tugged at his hair to tilt his head back. Their eyes met and Sirius felt whatever indignance he’d felt start to fade at the warmth in Remus’ gaze. He settled his hands on Remus’ hips and huffed. “I’ve never _seen it_ , alright? I didn’t know it would be so—” Sirius flicked a hand out, vaguely encompassing the entire kitchen. “ _Handsy_.”

The corner of Remus’ mouth quirked up and Sirius groaned, but Remus didn’t say anything. He just leaned in and kissed Sirius again, sans laughter this time. Despite himself, Sirius leaned into it, kissing back, his fingers slipping up under the hem of Remus’ sweater for a second time. Remus shivered and Sirius grinned into the kiss, digging cold fingers into his boyfriend’s hips until Remus yelped.

“Why are your hands always so bloody cold?” Remus murmured.

“Not enough _friction_ ,” Sirius replied. Remus snorted and Sirius grinned, bumping their noses together. “Is your baking ruined now?”

“No,” Remus said. He pushed Sirius’ hair out of his face and then twisted to look at the ball of dough where it lay on the counter. It was less of a ball after that last hit — in fact, it sort of resembled an especially fat blast-ended skrewt now. “I should finish, though.”

“What are you making?” Sirius asked, letting Remus slip out of their embrace.

“I’m not telling,” Remus replied. He picked up his dough, twisted it with a quick flick of his wrist and slapped it back down on the table. Then he rolled it toward him and away, kneading with one firm, strong movement of his hand that made Sirius feel a little light-headed. “If I tell you, you’ll get impatient and whine until they’re done.”

“I will not!” Sirius protested. Remus hummed, still kneading, and Sirius rolled his eyes. “Fine then. I’ll just be over here, with my book, _not caring at all_ about your gluten.” He walked over to the table and sat, grabbing his novel off the table.

For several minutes, Sirius couldn’t concentrate on the text, still warm from Remus’ touch and distracted by the repetitive sounds of Remus kneading dough on their shared counter. But eventually, he slipped back into the story, enough so that it was a shock when Remus replaced his cold cuppa with a fresh one and held up a spoon dripping with white icing.

Sirius squinted. “What’s this?”

“Just try it,” Remus said, still holding the spoon aloft. He had one palm held underneath to catch any drips and Sirius was tempted to just lick off the spot of icing he could see in the center. He went for the spoon instead, licking the sugar from his lips as he hummed. “Good, then?” Remus asked.

“Perfect,” Sirius agreed. He picked up his tea and inhaled a bit of the steam, contentedness seeping into every part of him. Remus beamed and spun on his heel, returning to the counter — where most of his baking materials had been cleared away, leaving behind just one mixing bowl and the ingredients for his icing.

Remus ran one finger along the rim of the bowl and then licked icing from his finger, so slowly that it had to be deliberate. Sirius bit back a groan and set his mug on the table, then took a deep breath in. He smelled cinnamon, butter, and heat — and whatever inappropriate thoughts he was having promptly slid out of his head.

“Moony, are you making cinnamon buns?” he asked.

His boyfriend hummed, licking more icing off his finger. “If I say yes, can I take you up on your earlier offer?”

Sirius put down his book and stood to cross the kitchen, rather than answer.

When the oven timer went off, he allowed Remus enough space to pull the buns from the oven, but insisted that the frosting could wait.


End file.
